


Not a Monster, Not a Machine

by redonpointe



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Poetry, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-31 04:20:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6455536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redonpointe/pseuds/redonpointe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Sherlock Holmes and Natasha Romanoff poem, inspired by Gracie Holmes and her beautiful writing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not a Monster, Not a Machine

You look at me,  
and you don't see a monster.  
You watch me bare my teeth  
and tip my head back to expose my neck—  
long and lean and white as marble—  
You hear the howl that rips from my throat and tears at the sky—  
bloody, violent and terrifying in its ferocity—  
and you tell me I am music.

You look at me,  
and you don't see a machine.  
You see electric blue flicker, spark and blaze underneath my lashes—  
Hear the tap tap tapping of code, all zeroes and ones and data, data, data—  
Feel the busy humming underneath my skin and in my head—  
and in my very _bones_ —  
and you tell me I am dancing.

You touch me,  
and you don't think you're touching a monster.  
Your fingers are slick with blood, red and thick and everywhere—  
Your skin is sticky, writhing—  
_itching_ with ribbons of shadow—  
and yet you pluck and strum and tuck into the dips and curves,  
until I am all but vibrating with a melody that isn't fear—  
and you tell me I am music.

You touch me,  
and you don't think you're touching a machine.  
Your hands dip into the blackest curls, and they are humming, buzzing, spinning out of control—  
Your lips tingle and thrum, and they leave marks on my skin—  
_Hardware_ —  
and even though I don't know the rhythm,  
don't know the steps—  
even though I am short circuiting, and jerking to a stop—  
you tell me I am dancing.

I look at you, and I am not a monster.  
I am more than sharp teeth and howling lips—  
I am more than bloody smears and ribbons of shadow—

I am warm kisses and soft hands and hitched breaths,  
and I am yours,  
and yours,  
and yours.

I look at you, and I am not a machine.  
I am more than strings of data and humming wires—  
I am more than smatterings of code and coldest hardware—

I am gentle fingers and reverent lips and tender whispers,  
and I am yours,  
and yours,  
and yours.


End file.
